


Birthday

by prototyping



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Platonic Relationships, Post-Canon, Prompt Fill, genfic, quick fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-26 20:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20033092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototyping/pseuds/prototyping
Summary: A year seems so small and fleeting now. [Sorey, Mikleo]





	Birthday

“Since when can you _bake?”_

That would probably come off insulting to most people, but Mikleo is too used to Sorey’s tactless way with words to take much offense. And to be fair, his surprise is warranted.

“Since a while ago,” Mikleo answers vaguely, leaving his friend to wonder whether he’s speaking in years or centuries. “No one’s forcing you to eat it, you know—”

“No, no,” Sorey says quickly, apologetically. “It’s just—I’ve been back this long and you’re just now dropping this news on me?”

Mikleo cocks a thin eyebrow as he turns to find that predictable, insufferably teasing grin on Sorey’s face. “Water seraph,” Mikleo reminds him. “How often have we had access to a proper oven in the last year?”

“I know, I know,” Sorey laughs. “I appreciate it. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“That implies there’s ever a time when you _don’t_.” With a wry half-smile on his face, Mikleo pulls out the opposite chair at the small table and sits. That’s the good thing about traveling odd hours and, in his case, sleeping very little: access to the inn’s kitchen after-hours. He can’t always pass for human among those who can see him—many more these days than he once thought possible—and even though this region is known for its hospitality towards seraphim, he’d rather work in secret and avoid any distractions, anyway.

Across from him, Sorey pokes curiously at the dish with his fork. It’s nothing grand or fancy, just a simple soufflé—more like a small cake, really—that’s one of the few non-cold dessert recipes Mikleo has committed to memory, something he worked on while preparing their late dinner earlier.

It’s long since cooled in its small baking dish, but Sorey exercises caution in such a way that he seems to think it might be on fire. After putting a forkful in his mouth, he pauses, and then his face lights up in surprise.

“It’s good!” he exclaims. He notices Mikleo’s expression and hastily amends, “I mean—it’s better than I expected!”

Mikleo sighs inwardly and barely resists rolling his eyes. Tactless indeed.

Sorey helps himself to another bite. “Seriously, it’s great! I wasn’t expecting chocolate.”

Mikleo eyes the black pastry and its dark brown crust in mild amusement. “The color didn’t give that away?”

“Honestly, I thought you might’ve just burned it that badly.”

“Shut up.”

But they both laugh, and Sorey pushes the dessert to the middle of the table and offers the fork over. “The cook should have some, too, for all his hard work.”

They take turns eating in comfortable silence. It’s now closer to early morning than late night, but the sun and the small town’s waking are still a couple hours away. It’s not much different from the nights they’re used to spending on the road or in caves as they travel together, but the warm presence of the inn around them is a nice change of scenery. It’s a quiet reminder of the life Mikleo left behind many, many years ago.

“A year, huh,” Sorey muses suddenly. “Has it really been that long already?”

“It has.” If he thinks it went by quickly, that says nothing of Mikleo. A year seems so small and fleeting now.

Mikleo sets the fork down beside the empty dish and adjusts in his seat, leaning back comfortably as he studies the dark window over Sorey’s shoulder. “A year exactly, actually,” he says. “Today. Or once the sun rises, I guess.”

Sorey blinks. “Seriously?”

“Mm,” Mikleo hums dismissively. He doesn’t want to admit how he knows—that he fell into counting days, months, and years after Sorey went away, an unintentional habit that eventually turned into an unconscious one. The long number in Mikleo’s head reset once he met Sorey again, and try as he might to shake the tendency, his internal clock is apparently too well-tuned. As of midnight just a few hours ago, it’s been three hundred and sixty-five days since Sorey reappeared.

“Huh,” Sorey says softly. He looks down at the tabletop, his expression difficult even for Mikleo to read. After a long moment, he gives a warm chuckle. “I guess this is kind of what a birthday’s like, huh?”

“What?”

“Well, it’s the anniversary of the day I dropped back into the world. And there’s even cake!”

Mikleo stares at him, but then can’t help sharing in his smile. Birthdays aren’t normally tracked by seraphim, let alone celebrated, and it was the same way for the two of them growing up in Elysia.

Considering what they know of their pasts, he realizes, it could be said that he and Sorey share the same birthday.

“It does seem pretty fitting,” Mikleo agrees. He crosses his arms loosely. “I wouldn’t say it’s a stretch to compare you to a one-year-old.”

Sorey makes a face. “That just means I’m in the prime of my life compared to an old man like you.”

That earns a hissed laugh somewhere between amused and annoyed. “I’ll take old and wise over young and hopeless,” Mikleo counters.

“Hey, how many centuries did it take you to bake this, again?”

“When was the last time you cooked _anything_ edible, again?”

They manage to regard one another for about two seconds before breaking into quiet laughter again.

“Nah, but seriously,” Sorey insists after their mirth subsides, “thanks for this, Mikleo.”

“It’s no big deal. I enjoy the challenge.” Even now, after all his practice and familiarity with the processes, just the idea of baking or cooking strains against his nature a little bit. No matter how talented he gets, he’s certain he’ll never be at ease with hot foods like he is with cold ones. The former will always require a little extra care and attention, and even then he’ll probably still mess up now and again－a concept that doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it once did.

_Edna would say I’ve spent too much time around humans._

Looking back at how much he’s changed over the centuries, perhaps she would be right, in a way.

And yet, sitting opposite of _this_ human and his easy smile for the three hundred and sixty-fifth day in a row, Mikleo knows that there’s no such thing as _too much_.

Short of the impossible forever, no amount of time will ever be enough.


End file.
